


your gift, my birthday

by Blahzor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Canon Era, Claudeleth Week (Fire Emblem), Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25497844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blahzor/pseuds/Blahzor
Summary: Claude seems to have gone missing on a very special day. There are roses everywhere.Byleth can’t decide which is worse.~day 6 of claudeleth week: birthdays
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	your gift, my birthday

**Author's Note:**

> the very happiest of birthdays to our scheming almyran prince :') 
> 
> written for day 6 of claudeleth week: birthdays

Byleth slams the table for emphasis. “Hilda, tell me.”

“Tell you _what?”_

“Where is he hiding?”

“How should I know?" she snaps. "I’m not his nanny."

“Must I remind you,” Byleth says to a classroom full of ghosts, “that I was once your professor?”

“Good point!” She pauses to think. “So...that must make _you_ his nanny.”

He’s thinking now too, searching for a comeback. “Are you implying,” he says, “that you’re all unaware? _Today,_ of all days?”

“Probably _because_ it’s today,” Hilda says. “You know how he gets. ‘I’m so mysterious! Look at my winking! Hey, Hilda, why do you look so gorgeous today?’ ”

A slip of the tongue: “Does he say that?”

“No,” like she’s now thinking about cutting it out, “but it’d be nice. Can't a girl get some appreciation?”

“If you told me where—”

“What about Raphael?” she interrupts. “Go bother him instead.”

“I already have.” 

“And?”

“He said the same thing." And a shrug, and a question, and a redirection to his turkey legs. The turkey legs had been more helpful. 

“Isn’t that a shocker,” Hilda says, leaning back, teetering on the legs of her chair. If they were held up by wooden splinters made of truth then Byleth was entirely sure she’d be crying on the floor right now.

He needs better comebacks. 

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found?”

“We both know that’s not true.” He doesn’t mention to her that he knows Claude’s hiding spots—all ten of them. Otherwise he’d have to add that he’s checked every single one, he’s scrubbed them up and down. That’s a sign of weakness he can’t afford right now.

Especially with Hilda out for blood. “How would I know that?” she says.

“Well—”

“Better question, how would _you?”_

Call it a stalemate, get out of there.

“This conversation is over,” he bristles, and he’s heading for the door. 

She’s watching the back of his neck. “You’re forgetting something!” she calls out.

Byleth knows he’s not forgetting, he’s _ignoring_ the something, which is going to be a lot harder to do now that Hilda's brought it up. He’s afraid to look. She’s probably a step away—literally—from dragging him by the cape and holding him hostage.

No choice but to surrender. “Surprise me.”

“Okay,” with a nod. Her hands reach down to the floor. “Someone dropped this off for you.”

“We both know who it was.”

“Well, would you look at that,” she says. “I think you have a secret admirer. Aren't you lucky!”

If he _was_ lucky, then he wouldn’t be dealing with the sight—the smell was worse, actually—of another rose. This one was yellow. The last one had been yellow. The others had been some shade of color, he doesn’t care, he's looking for a string to bind them all together before he chucks them off the terrace.

But he can’t verbalize that with Hilda’s giant doe eyes which, if he’s being honest, reminds him of a viper among rabbits. (Now, _there’s_ a good comeback!) And he’s tried every method: denial, pushing back, more denial, _these would look_ much _better if you kept them,_ and only Ignatz had hesitated (and Marianne, but that’s just Marianne). 

“Take it, it’s yours,” she says.

So, no luck at all. Claude probably stole it all with him.

He sighs. “Thank you, Hilda,” and he’s holding the _seventh_ rose? How convenient! That’s one less than eight! "I...I appreciate it?”

“Oh, I have a sneaking feeling that you will.”

Once again, he makes to leave. Until: “Hilda?”

“Hm?”

“May I ask you for a favor?”

* * *

It had started like this:

It was a new moon. Claude's birthday was coming up. And...well, actually, that’s all Byleth remembers. The rest were details. Fishing here, planning there, back and forth with the fishing and the planning. Then the fated week had arrived with the big day sitting on the horizon.

He’d looked to his journal, then to the sky, then for a miracle. Not a thing to be found. Claude's incessant whistling certainly hadn’t helped. 

“Claude,” he’d said, “if you value my sanity, then you would keep quiet.”

“We wouldn’t want you losing _that_ , now would we?” before proceeding twice as loud.

It wasn’t until the day before that he came up with a plan. He’d ask the Golden Deer, maybe a few others, and they’d put something together. He’d hidden this from Claude, of course, but there was something about the way Claude had looked at Byleth that day that made him feel like a book.

But he was used to it. Used to Claude. For the most part their duties came first. The exceptions only came when no one was around, their responsibilities were slowing, and they could joke and whisper and Claude would close that little bit of distance to kiss him like _this, this is how you do it Teach,_ and he’d indulge in the moment. Only a moment. There's a war to take care of, feelings or not. 

But now he’s thinking about the wink again, he’s searching the courtyards, and why does no one have a vase?

“Professor!” Flayn, accompanied by a Seteth who’s dragging along a Shamir. “Such a lovely bouquet! Perhaps for an even lovelier special someone?”

A blind hope: maybe _they_ can be the someone. But Flayn nips it at the root. “I couldn’t bear to take these,” she says. “Why, they could be for brightening someone's day! Isn't that right, Professor?”

“More likely emptying someone’s pocket,” Seteth butts in as if he appraises flowers on the regular. “It’s rare to see roses this season—they must have fetched a high price. Did you purchase them, Professor?”

“No,” he says.

“Grow them?”

“No,” as if horrified at the thought.

“Ah, so it’s the other way around then? You‘re a lucky man.” He nudges Shamir. “What say you, Shamir?”

She scoffs. “I say you’re both soft in the head.”

Finally someone Byleth can agree wi—wait, who's 'both'?

He gives it a shot: “Have you seen Claude?”

“I don’t believe I have,” says Flayn.

“I‘m afraid not,” says Seteth.

“I don’t really want to,” Shamir adds.

Byleth groans.

Surprisingly to everyone, Shamir proves to be the most useful—Claude isn’t just hiding, he’s practically gone _missing_. She and Seteth were actually cobbling together a plan. “Let us know,” she tells Byleth, “if there’s nothing by end-of-day. We’ll send out a search party in the morning.”

This is serious. Byleth is actually starting to get worried.

So he uses his last resort for the eighth time: “May I ask you for a favor?”

* * *

He leaves the courtyard. His mind is planning while his feet do the heavy work. Stables, check. Chapel, check. No one but Lysithea goes to the library. Turkey legs—no, _Dining Hall_ , check. All ten places (ten, right? Was he missing one?)— _definitely_ checked.

The sunlight is fading. The leaves are green. Byleth’s trying not to think about it, or their color, or the warmth that he’s feeling yet missing at the same time, but he thinks about it anyway.

It doesn’t take long to get to his room and pull on the handle. Time to brainstorm. His sheets are on the floor. Claude is sitting on his bed. 

He’s holding a rose.

He’s grinning like a maniac. 

“Hey, look who made it!" he says. "I thought you’d never show up.”

And Byleth doesn’t answer, he’s numb with relief. Or is it disbelief? His cheeks are red. His mind is too busy being stuck between the equally attractive options of kissing him and strangling him.

“Claude,” he says. “Have you been here this entire time?”

“Certainly long enough to need a stretch,” which he does. He holds out the rose. “For you.”

Byleth doesn’t take it; he looks down at the seven in his hand. Oh, he thinks. They’re _all_ golden. He hadn’t realized. Claude’s is the only one whose petals are red.

He gestures to the drooping petals. “Why?" he says. "I...I don’t understand. Any of this.”

Claude tilts his head. “It’s my birthday, right?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s a special occasion, right?”

“Yes.”

“So I can do what I want, right?”

Byleth hesitates. That last one is dangerous. “I...yes?”

“And what I _want,”_ he says, his boots closing the distance, “is to spend some special quality time with a special little bird that’s caught my eye.”

“So talk to Marianne,” Byleth says.

He ignores the suggestion to look at Byleth’s collection. “All seven,” he observes. “Well, I’ll be. You completed that without a hitch.”

Claude's cheeks look radiant under the sun; maybe he should slap them.

“Complete what?” Byleth asks.

“I couldn’t just _ask_ you to spend time with me,” Claude says, his gaze redirecting. “That would be boring.”

Byleth says, “I like boring.”

“And I like _you,”_ Claude says, “so I arranged something special. Your gift, my birthday. One _special_ flower from each Golden Deer.”

Byleth blinks. “What am I to do with all these flowers?”

He shrugs. “Whatever you want. Give them to me, give them to Hilda, make a flower crown to pull up your hair.”

“Why would I pull up my hair?”

“Sorry that I couldn’t complete the collection.” He lifts his own. He takes a small sniff. He looks more handsome than usual, which Byleth finds concerning. “They ran out of gold. Or maybe it’s a sign.”

“A sign?”

“Did you know that each shade of rose holds its own special meaning? Do you know what red stands for?”

According to Flayn’s smile: _they say the red ones are romantic!_

“No,” Byleth says.

“Then let me show you.”

He pulls up to Byleth. Byleth fails to retreat. He would resist, he _can_ resist, it’s just a lot harder to do so when Claude’s already getting in the shell of his personal space and he's grinning that grin and stroking those long, slender, callused fingers down the curves of his cheek.

And it’s even harder when he pulls Byleth in. And Byleth can’t say no, not when their lips are already touching to melt the words in his mouth. He tastes too sweet, feels too tender for that. The only thing sweeter would be the stench of roses.

Maybe they don’t smell so bad after all.

Claude pulls back. He says nothing, he doesn't have to, his _eyes_ are smiling now. It reminds Byleth of a child whose birthday wish was just fulfilled.

Which, honestly, they could’ve simply arranged from the start. Why didn’t Claude just _ask_? Why did he have to be so difficult?

Why does Byleth have to love him for it?

“Well, that’s that!” Claude smacks him on the shoulder. “Guess we can all go home now. Happy birthday to me!”

But not from Byleth. What he says instead: “Claude?”

“Yeah, Teach?”

“May I ask you for a favor?”

“You may,” filled with curiosity.

Byleth’s turn to smile. “Open the door for me?”

* * *

“Happy birthday, Claude!” 

The cheer could've broken down old Teach’s door. Claude can't keep his mouth from dropping at the smiles, the cake, the fact that _all_ the Golden Deer are gathered on Teach’s doorstep, Seteth and Shamir? Why are they glaring? And will you look at that, Flayn's there too! Did she rope them in?

Or did it all have to do with the professor standing behind him, hands firm on his shoulders?

“Surprised?” Byleth says.

Claude doesn't get a chance to answer before they're going down the line:

“You better enjoy this cake, Claude! It took _hours_ for me to frost.”

“As unbearable as you are, I suppose congratulations are in order.”

“Are you ready to feast? ‘Cause I sure am!” Was...that a turkey leg?

“Look, Claude, I painted you!”

Hilda, surprisingly, turns out to be the least interesting: “Claude, you’re really something, you know that?” (He does.) “But happy birthday, thanks for staying alive!”

“Happy birthday, Claude!” Nope, never mind. Leonie wins that one. “Leave some cake for the rest of us?”

Even Marianne got in a monologue: “Congratulations, Claude!” 

And Claude's still surveying the scene before him. It’s one he’s unfamiliar with, so it takes a few seconds. They're smiling. Genuine, real smiles. Even the sternness of the parents seems to be melting, which looks uncharacteristically weird. They’re watching him like it's his birthday, it's his _happy_ birthday. _Please,_ _Claude, we hope you're happy_.

He takes it in. First: he's grateful. For Teach, for all of them, too much to put into words. Goddess, he might just shed a sad little tear.

Second: “Did you all double-cross me?”

But he can’t hear past the hand on the back of his head. His face is in the cake. There's frosting on his eyebrows and the rest of them are laughing. Above them all is Byleth’s, sweeter than rose petals. Or he could just be mixing up his senses. Maybe that’s the whipped cream on his tongue. Maybe it's the taste of a well-completed scheme.

Maybe it _does_ have to do with Byleth, lips soft against a face full of frosting, as Claude thinks of one thing.

_Happy birthday, indeed._

**Author's Note:**

> come join me on twitter! :) 
> 
> <https://twitter.com/blahzor1>


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